


Miscommunication is an Understatement

by vanillabean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Dream Sex, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Romance, Smut, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:39:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillabean/pseuds/vanillabean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For re-white based on her prompt:<br/>Hurt/Comfort - John’s been awake longer than Sherlock, but he still doesn’t want to sleep.</p><p>Originally posted on my tumblr page</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For re-white based on her prompt:  
> Hurt/Comfort - John’s been awake longer than Sherlock, but he still doesn’t want to sleep.
> 
> Originally posted on my tumblr page

John is curled up on the sofa, legs crossed, his laptop perched upon his knees.  All other lights in the flat are off save for the bluish glare of his screen, casting his face in a harsh relief.  A sigh escapes John’s lips, exasperated.  He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and glances at the clock display on his computer.  It reads 3:42 am.  He sighs again, hands poised over the keys, but no words are coming.  Only a single thought remains in his head, hammering over and over again.

_Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot._

 

●●● **Earlier that afternoon** ●●●

 

John sat at his desk in his small, cramped office, head in his hands.  He was tired, physically and mentally drained, one of his youngest patients, a bright, happy 10 year old boy had just died on the operating table.  It was only yesterday that he had diagnosed him with appendicitis and sent him in for an operation.  It was a procedure that was so simple, so routine that he shouldn’t have died.  He knew that accidents happened, and the statistics that say almost anyone going for an appendix removal should come out, but those never applied in hospitals.  Hell, he’d seen someone that was considered terminal walk out of the hospital, and another who was sent in for a minor surgery ended up on the slab.  In short, statistics didn’t apply in hospitals, but right now he didn’t really give a shit.  That boy should have come out of there with nothing but a small scar and gone on with his life, gone to school, grow up, and have a life, a future.  He slammed his fist on his desk and cried out in sheer frustration.  Why was this affecting him so much?  He had patients die before, hell he’d been in the army!  He had people die in his arms!  Why this one, why was he so special?

“John,” came a quiet voice paired with a knock on his door, “are you alright?”

“Sarah? Come on in.”

Sarah’s eyes rapidly examined John’s face, a look of concern and sympathy painted upon her own.  She reached out and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, asking again,

“John, are you alright?  You were making an awful lot of noise.”

“Of course I’m not alright!” he spat venomously, “Tom’s dead!”

“What, how?”

“Complications in surgery,” he mumbled into his now tightly balled fists. 

“I’m so sorry John, he was a sweet kid, but John…erm…this may be a bad time, but you have other patients that need seeing.  I would take them for you, but I’m swamped.  I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, okay…” he said quietly, rising from his chair. 

Sarah was opening the door and had almost crossed the threshold when from behind her she heard,

“Why him Sarah?  I…I was in the army, I saw people die.  Yeah it hurt, but not like this.”

She smiled sadly, “It’s because you care John, you always care.”

“Of course I care! I’m a doctor, we’re supposed to care!”

“No John, I meant –”

“Forget it Sarah, I have to go see my next patient.”

He walked past her, coldly brushing her shoulder on the way out of his office. 

 

For once, Sherlock was asleep.  He lay sprawled on the couch in a way that to most should not have been even remotely comfortable.  Head, almost touching the floor, legs, resting on the back of the couch, one arm crossed over his steadily rising and falling chest, the other, limp on the floor.  Not two hours before he had been pondering the multiple quandaries in his most recent experiment.  The so called “experiment” or rather “heap of gelatinous black non-Newtonian liquid” as he had taken to calling it, was now splattered over the various surfaces of the kitchen and some had even made it to the living room, and it was oozing.  In a fit of rage, Sherlock had hurled a rather large clump of the substance at the refrigerator.  The resulting mess that now decorated their flat was of no consequence to him, as his attention was solely focused on the repeated failure of his experiments.

 First, the intestines (all with varying forms of disease or infection) had mysteriously disappeared over night.

_Most likely Mrs. Hudson cleaning the fridge out when the smell became too powerful._

Secondly, the cultures in the Petri dishes had not formed properly, thus rendering two weeks’ worth of work utterly useless.  Lastly, there was the experiment that had driven him to enhance their décor.  In short, after forty some odd hours of working, he was utterly drained.  So, he had flopped himself down on the couch and quickly found himself in the soothing arms of Morpheus. 

●●●

 

Sherlock’s phone vibrated angrily on the floor, much to his chagrin.  He groaned, reached out to answer it and then decided better of it. 

 _John won’t mind_ , _always trying to get me to sleep more often_ , and went back to sleep. 

●●●

 

“I’m going to kill him,” grumbled John as he waited in line for the chip and pin machine at Tesco, a nearly overflowing shopping basket slung over his left arm, phone in hands, furiously texting his flatmate.

**_Sherlock, I’ll be on my way back soon.  Need help carrying the groceries inside._ **

**_Sherlock?_ **

**_Why aren’t you answering?_ **

**_I’m really not in the mood for this.  I’ve had a shitty day at work._ **

**_Sherlock!?_ **

**_Sherlock! Quit being an arse and answer your damn phone!_ **

He angrily punched his PIN on the number pad, gathered the numerous shopping bags, hoping that the straining plastic handles would hold their weight.  He walked briskly down the street in a hurried attempt to make it back to their flat before the bags gave way.  The cold November wind whipped around his face, slapping his frozen cheeks repeatedly, he put some of the bags down on the sidewalk, and adjusted his collar to shield his face.  It helped somewhat, but not by much.  The wind seemed to find every gap between his layers of clothing and penetrated them with a merciless ferocity.  He pulled his coat tighter around his shivering body, grabbed the bags and began walking again.

 By the time he reached the foyer of 221B he was huffing and puffing, and just making a lot of noise all around, in the hope that he could send the message to Sherlock that he was rather irritated with him this afternoon.  John mounted the stairs, each creaking in protest at their oppressor.  The door to their living was wide open.  For once, something had gone right for John today.  He glanced around the living room as he entered and espied Sherlock asleep on the couch, which caused John to grin and chuckle quietly. 

He headed toward the kitchen to put the groceries away when he saw the state of it.  His eyes bugged and his mouth fell open in pure shock.  The goop that Sherlock had hurled at the fridge was slowly making its descent towards the floor, leaving a translucent gray trail in its wake.  The bags fell from John’s hands and crashed to the ground which was then accompanied by the cacophonous sound of items hitting the wooden floors and shattering , causing Sherlock’s eyes to fly open and hurl himself backwards off the couch and onto the floor with a resounding _whump_.

John stood with his back to Sherlock, not saying anything, his hands trembled with rage and his mouth moved rapidly, trying to form the words, but nothing emerged.  Sherlock quietly padded over to him, dressing gown flowing around his willowy figure. 

“John, what’s wrong?” he asked, worry coloured his voice.

“What’s wrong?” John whispered darkly, finding his voice, “WHAT’S WRONG!? LOOK AT THE KITCHEN SHERLOCK!!”

“Oh, that.  I thought something had gone horribly awry.”

“Of course it has! There’s that black goo everywhere, and what in god’s name is that smell?”

“It was for an experiment John,” he replied coolly, “which obviously resulted in the mess you see here, and since it did not result in what I had predicted, I may have lobbed some of it at the refrigerator.”

“Sh-Sherlock you just can’t –“

“Problem?”

John sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, trying desperately to keep his rapidly rising temper in check. 

“Of course there’s a problem!  The kitchen looks like a fucking disaster zone!  Why didn’t you just clean up the mess?!”

“I was tired,” he replied softly, his normally confident baritone now timid, like a child being scolded.  He knew it was poor excuse but sleep still clung to the edges of his thoughts. 

“You were tired? Jesus, Sherlock! Would it kill you to think about someone other than yourself for 5 minutes!  You have to be the single most selfish bastard on the planet! You egotistical prat!”

“John, I –”

“I need some air.”

The door slammed shut with resounding finality.  Sherlock glanced around the now even messier flat, taking mental notes about the damage.  The groceries that John had dropped were now strewn around the floor.  The milk had escaped its plastic container and was pooling around the food, soaking into the more porous items.  The jam jars had smashed and the contents had combined with the milk to create a grotesque, but fascinating substance.

 _Must study later._  

The other various foodstuffs had either rolled towards the table or fireplace or remained where they fell; some, like the fruit, were ripe enough that they had burst on impact.  

It took Sherlock quite a lot longer than expected to clean the flat.  First, he had to remember where the cleaning implements were stored. He had decided that since either Mrs. Hudson or John cleaned the flat the knowledge was useless and deleted it from his memory.  Then, came the actual cleaning, the heap of gelatinous black non Newtonian liquid was very reluctant to leave its newfound home and made an unpleasant squelching noise when large quantities of it were mopped or gathered up.  The milk was promptly thrown in the bin, as there was not even enough left for a single glass.  The glass shards of the jam jars were carefully collected and thrown in with their brethren.  The other food that was salvageable was gathered up and put in their respective places.  When he was finished Sherlock found, much to his surprise, that he was rather pleased with himself. 

 _Should do this more often, utterly mindless, but distracting nevertheless_.  _Would also help keep John from becoming irritated._

Sherlock mentally weighed his options.  Starting another experiment was completely out of the question.  He could always clean more of the flat, but everything was in its proper place so there was no need for that.  Eventually, he decided that he would retire properly for the night, but first he would make some tea for John, an “I’m sorry I attempted to destroy our flat and cause you to fly into a fit of rage” gesture.   So, he went into the kitchen, put some water into the kettle, set it on the stove and turned the burner on.  The gas clicked a couple of times and ignited with a _fwoosh_ , Sherlock loved that sound, it reminded him of so many experiments involving Bunsen burners and flammable materials and compounds.  He reached into the cabinet above the stove and grabbed a bag of John’s preferred tea, black, Earl Grey. 

_At first simple, then complex and robust.  Much like John._

He dropped the teabag into John’s mug, a white and navy blue stripped cup, each stripe exactly same width, exactly three of each.  Beautiful symmetry.  The kettle whistled and squealed so Sherlock turned off the gas with a quick flick of the knob, the blue flame died as the oxygen was cut off.  He removed the kettle and poured the hot water into the mug; water splashed around the edges and swirled into a small vortex, and filled the cup just below the brim.  Steam rose from the cup in entrancing spirals, gradually working their way towards the ceiling. He dropped the teabag into the water and carefully draped the string over the side of the cup, the tag swayed slightly as Sherlock let it go.  The teabag released the essence of its contents into the liquid and infused the flavours and scents into the water, creating an entirely new beverage.  A rich auburn colour flowed from the pores of the bag, swirling and gradually tinting the hot liquid.  After a couple of minutes had passed he removed the teabag and tossed it into the bin.  Sherlock grabbed the mug and set it on the now gleaming kitchen table, hoping that John would be back before it got cold. 

Sherlock glanced at the clock; it read 12:24 am.  He turned on his heel and made for his bedroom.  He flicked on the lamp by his bed, stripped off his dressing gown, crawled into his bed, pulled the very expensive, 300 thread count, white Egyptian cotton sheets, over his shoulders, and turned the light back off.  A single sigh escaped.  He felt somewhat repulsed with himself; he had caused John to go over the precipice, it was obvious that something had upset him earlier that day. 

_Probably something at work._

However, what Sherlock had done resulted in John completely losing control of his temper.  Normally, John would just sigh good naturedly, make some remark under his breath, and go back to what he was doing.  Sherlock knew that the tea and cleaning were a pathetic makeup gestures but it was still something.  John was doing him some good, before he became his flatmate, Sherlock would have just left the mess and studied the long-term effects of the substance on various surfaces and materials around the flat.  Just moments before drifting off for the second time that day, he came to the conclusion that he must do something more to show John that he was truly sorry. 

 

Two hours later, John stumbled up the stairs of 221B, more than a little tipsy.  He turned the knob of the door to the living room and rubbed his eyes in total disbelief as he discovered Sherlock’s handiwork.  

_Wait, don’t jump to conclusions John, this could have been Mrs. Hudson.  No, it couldn’t have been! She’s visiting her sister in Hampshire.  Did Sherlock – no he wouldn’t, but it couldn’t have been anyone else! Oh. My. God. He cleaned._

That’s when John came across yet another surprise, the tea.  Now stone cold, it looked so stark and solitary lit by the cold florescent light over the kitchen table.  John grabbed the mug and sniffed at the tea; of course Sherlock knew his preferred flavour, it seemed he knew everything about him.   It was both endearing and a tad bit unsettling. 

_What the bloody hell? He doesn’t make tea, except when he attempts to drug me.  I yelled at him, I left, he cleaned, and he made me tea.  Did he feel…bad? I shouldn’t have yelled at him, that was stupid.  I’ve had bad days, but I never blew up at someone because of it.  I need to talk to him._

John stumbled to Sherlock’s bedroom, the door was slightly ajar, a tiny beam of light pierced the darkness and illuminated a sliver of Sherlock’s ebony curls.  His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm.  John smiled, pleased that Sherlock had been able to fall asleep for the second time today, he was always trying to get him to sleep on a more regular basis, and for once it seemed like Sherlock had taken his advice.  John pulled the door closed and returned to the kitchen.  He grabbed the mug from the table, put it in the microwave and heated his tea.  Sure the flavour would be off, but he felt obligated to drink it.  To pour it down the drain just seemed like such a shitty thing to do.  Once it was thoroughly heated he removed it from the microwave and walked into the living room.  He set the mug down on the arm of the couch, grabbed his computer from the table, sat cross-legged on the couch and opened his laptop. 

 

●●● **3:42 am** ●●●

 

The cursor on the empty blog entry page blinks mercilessly, taunting John as if saying,

“Well, what are you waiting for?  Type!”

He takes another sip of his tea, the liquid feels warm and comforting as it slides down his throat, and goes back to staring at the blank page.  He was originally going to write about his horrid day and eventually make an apology to Sherlock via his blog, but then thought he would rather do it in person.  Besides, it seemed like a very circuitous and cowardly way of making amends.  He has no idea what to write or how to apologize to Sherlock.  He could just wait for him to wake up; it wouldn’t be long now, make some coffee for the both of them and talk about yesterday.  That’s what adults are supposed to do.  They’re supposed to talk about their problems instead of avoiding.  He didn’t want this whole affair tainting their friendship like a stubborn stain in the rug.  Or, he could try to get some sleep, no, two or so hours wouldn’t make much of a difference, in fact, it just might make him even more tired. 

 _I’ll just wait_. 

The early morning light pours into 221B; dust motes swirl and dance within the beams piercing through the window panes.  Sherlock emerges from his room, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, one shoulder of his blue dressing gown hanging off his frame.  He sniffs at the air. 

 _Coffee_. 

The scent permeates the air, filling the room with its glorious and rejuvenating essence.  He walks over to the coffee maker, pours himself a cup, opens the fridge and quickly closes it again, remembering that they are out of milk and walks over towards the sofa to sit, but then stops short.  John had fallen asleep in the same position that he had been in last night, one hand still clutched around his mug of tea, the other sits beside his thigh.  His head resting on the back of the couch, nose almost in the seam of the cushions.  John’s laptop, still running, is perched on his crossed knees, fan whirring faintly.  A smile flicks across Sherlock’s lips as he says softly,

“John…”

Silence, save for the heavy breathing of someone deep in their REM cycle.

“John,” he repeats a touch more loudly.

John’s eyes flutter open and focus on the figure standing in front of him with a lopsided dressing gown, coffee in one hand, and a smile plastered on his usually, purposefully impassive face. 

 “ _Wha sofunny_?”

“Nothing, were you up all night?” nonchalance dominating Sherlock’s face once again. 

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep, is there still coffee left?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

John exhales heavily, places his computer on the cushion next to him, and rises stiffly from the sofa, his back cracking.

_God, I’m getting old. I can’t even sleep on a bloody sofa without my back hurting._

John grabs another mug from the cupboard and gladly fills his cup. Taking a sip of the strong black liquid, he smiles.  While he prefers tea, there are some things that only a good cup of coffee can do, waking him up is one.  He returns to the couch and sits down with his back resting against the arm; he pats the cushion in front of him, inviting Sherlock to sit.

“I’ll stand.”

John raises an annoyed eyebrow, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes, but he consents and takes his place across the couch from John.  Sherlock tucks his knees into his chest and wraps his arms around them. 

“Look,” starts John tentatively, “it would be easier on the both of us if I didn’t live here.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock blinks rapidly, panic flittering across the blue and green jewelled facets of his eyes.  His face turns white, the colour drained from his already pale complexion.  He practically launches himself off the sofa to stand in front of John, terror evident in his entire body. 

“I…I know I can be a bit of a handful to live with,” he stammers,  “what with my violin playing at odd hours and all, but move, John?”

“Sher –”

“John, I’m truly sorry for what I did yesterday, it was uncontainable for me to have left the flat in such a state, but I did clean it up.  I even made tea!”  he blurts, as if the tea makes up for everything, every experiment that has eaten away at their table, the head in the fridge, the eyes in the microwave, attempting to drug John’s coffee, everything. 

“Yes you did, but Sherlock –”

“John please, I am sorry.  I…I don’t think I could –”

“Sherlock!”

“What?”

“You idiot, if you would have let me finish, I would have said, ‘it would be easier on both of us if I didn’t live here…’”

“Yes, you already said that, what next? Something else you care to tell me?” he spat. Trying to mask hurt with sarcasm and venom. 

John raises an eyebrow and gives an exasperated sigh.

“I apoligise. Continue.” Sherlock replies.

“It would be easier on us mentally, I wouldn’t have to put up with your, uh, eccentricities, and you wouldn’t have to put up with my temper and other shortcomings. _But_ , it would be dull without you Sherlock, and I don’t think I would be coping very well without having come here and having you as my flatmate.  I honestly couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, Baker Street is my home.  Sorry about starting off with that by the way, that was stupid, a miscommunication on my part.”

“Miscommunication is an understatement John.”

“Yeah, sorry.  Umm, about yesterday, that was what I wanted to talk about in the first place, the reason I was so angry to begin with wasn’t because of you, it was something that happened earlier at work.  I…I lost a patient, a kid Sherlock, just a kid.”

John’s eyes start to well with tears, and suddenly he breaks down completely, the sobs racking his body, his breaths coming in huge gasps.  Sherlock just stares; he has absolutely no idea of what to do.  His arms start to move toward John, as if to embrace him, but he quickly pulls them back to their original position at his sides.  Thankfully for Sherlock, John has finished his cry and is wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. 

“I’m sorry, I just, I don’t normally do that, it was just so sudden and I felt so utterly useless and incompetent and –”

“Was there anything that you could have done that would have prevented his death?” asks Sherlock, going into the tone of voice he reserves solely for deductive work.  A deep, methodical baritone. 

“Umm, no I guess not.”

“Then, if there was nothing you could have done to prevent the events from taking place, then there is no reason to hold yourself accountable John.  It happened in the operating room, not under your supervision, yes?”

John nodded.

“Then, you did nothing wrong.  It was not your actions that caused the boy to die, yes it may have been your diagnosis, but since you were not the one cutting him open, nor were you the one who made the mistake that led to his death, so what you did has absolutely no correlation to what resulted in the boy’s death. So, stop blaming yourself for the stupidity of others, _now_.”  Sherlock crosses his arms as he utters the final word, making it an order. 

John looks up at Sherlock, eyes still wet and red from his earlier episode, and bursts out laughing, the sound ringing throughout the flat.  Sherlock drops his arms and the look of determination and irritation is replaced by confusion.

“What’s so funny?”

“You!”  laughs John.

“Me?”

“Yes!  You can’t just order someone to feel differently, idiot! It’s how they feel Sherlock, they can’t just change with a snap of their fingers, even if they wanted to, _especially_ not if they were told to by someone else.  People just don’t work that way.”

“I’m well aware of this John.  I do have emotions like you and everyone else, I’m not a machine. But I still fail to see what is so funny.”

John snorts good naturedly and chuckles, “It was just the way you said it.  They were all good reasons for how I’m not responsible and everything, but when you basically commanded me to stop feeling sorry for myself, it just sounded so ridiculous!”

“Ah.  But you do feel better?”

“Yes, actually.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No really, thank you.  I just had a really hard time with it yesterday, and I acted like such a dick. To you and to Sarah, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, even if you did almost destroy the flat.”

Sherlock smiles, mischief playing at the corners of his mouth, “I did not come close to destroying the flat John, believe me, it could have been much worse.  What you saw yesterday when you arrived home was the result of a _failed_ experiment, and for what it’s worth, the substance was highly flammable, and since it was present in most of our kitchen and parts of the living room had I exposed it to an open flame the results could have been disastrous.”

“Had you thought about doing that?”

Sherlock’s only response was a noncommittal shrug, leaving John to gather his own conclusions, which both amused and terrified him.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I include two pieces of music that Sherlock plays. The first is Edouard Lalo's "Symphonie Espagnol" which you can listen to here:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g5cUeeRO3PI
> 
> The second is Gabriel Fauré's "Pavane" which you can listen to here:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sl-zFE7VVTk

Only small, quiet sounds are heard throughout 221B that afternoon.  Sherlock’s fingers fly over the keyboard of his computer as he enters an astronomical amount of new data relating to the identification of various types of tobacco ash. Occasionally, there is the rustle of newspaper as John turns to another page or folds it over for a better view of a particular article.  Compared to the chaos of yesterday, it is utter tranquillity. 

 

John glances up from an article about the latest political scandal to “rock London” as he remembers something that Sherlock had said earlier; when he thought John was threatening to leave Baker Street, something that he couldn’t do. 

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“There was something that you were going to say earlier, what was it?”

“John that is an equivocal question.  There are many things that I could have said and didn’t, thousands of possibilities that could have resulted in thousands of outcomes, please do be specific.”

“Alright, fine.  It was when you thought I was going to move, you said that you couldn’t do something, or something along those lines.”

“Ah that. Yes I did say something like that.” 

“So, what were you going to say?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, not really. I was just curious.”

“It’s inconsequential, just forget it.”  Sherlock says with a wave of his hand, attempting to dismiss it. 

Sherlock rises from his chair, walks over to his violin case, and releases his violin from its velvet lined container.  He plucks at the strings, leaning in towards the fingerboard, checking to see if it is in tune.  Satisfied, he places the shoulder rest on the bottom, test it, makes a couple of adjustments, grabs his bow, turns the knob to tighten the hair, places the bow on the strings and begins to play.  He plays a movement from Edouard Lalo’s _Symphonie Espagnole_ , the dramatic and dance-like fourth movement.  It reminds John of the calypso dancers he once saw in Spain, using their feet as the metronome and adding layers of rhythm with their hands and bodies.  It was spectacular and mesmerising.  Yet, there is a nagging thought that keeps bothering him, something that Sherlock won’t tell him, but he was going to, something important. 

_What could he have meant earlier, couldn’t do what?  God, that’s a beautiful piece of music, just shut up and listen John.  Oh well, I’ll just ask him later._

John relents and lets the beautiful melody wash over him.  He truly enjoys the music that Sherlock plays.  He always knows what type of music John likes, while it’s not his favourite piece he loves the whole feel of this piece, it’s like a lover caressing him and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

 

 

**●●● Later that evening ●●●**

John calls Sarah, to apologize for yesterday. She thinks nothing of it. She said she knew that John was just upset, that she’ll see him in a couple of days for his next shift, and wishes him a good night.  He wishes her a good night in return and closes his phone.  He looks at his watch and decides to turn in for the night.  Though it is early, he had slept so poorly the night before and he wants to catch up on missed sleep.

“Good night Sherlock.”

Sherlock just nods.  When he hears John’s door close upstairs he heaves a sigh of relief. 

_That was far too close for comfort. Need to be less obvious if he asks again. Almost said something that had the possibility of far too many negative outcomes, some positive, but the probability of that is slim.  35% at most. Best just keep my mouth shut.  Avoidance and denial are key._

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do with himself.  He had already updated his blog numerous times, adding more to his entries on the various types of perfumes and tobacco ash.  He could also take another shot at those Petri cultures or start looking for the intestines that Mrs. Hudson (probably) had thrown out and begin dissecting the intestines and examine the different types of intestinal diseases and viruses under the microscope, which always fascinated him. Then there were the cases, or lack thereof rather, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.  Which never pans out well.  He could play the violin, something soft and soothing.  A way to lull John to sleep as it were or it just as easily result in rousing John from his slumber.  Hopefully the former.  He pulls out his violin once again and to take a precautionary measure, he opts to add the mute to his violin.  Besides, he often preferred the sound of a muted violin, it was more melancholy.  He chooses to forgo the traditional Brahms’s Lullaby and begins to play Faure’s _Pavane_ instead.   The melody is simple, a Faure hallmark, but it is also wonderfully sweet and sad.  The strings of the violin sing and paint a picture of sweet and calming things.  The song fills the flat, echoing off of the organized chaos that inhabits the living room.  Sherlock ends the piece on a on a tender lower note, he holds the note letting it echo throughout the flat before he retires his violin for the night. 

Sherlock listens intently for any sound coming from John’s room, a noise of protest, feet clambering down the stairs, John angry.  But no sounds come.  Sherlock smiles, he had hoped that John would find the piece soothing enough to serve as a lullaby and send him gently into the realm of sleep, and it appears as though he did. 

He walks out the back door, over to the bins, and begins rummaging through them, trying to find the large plastic container with the six different intestines. He finds nothing but some rotting food, used napkins, and the broken jam jars. 

_What could have happened – oh. Stupid, stupid.  Two nights ago, must have been distracted, garbage pickup.  Of course._

So, examining the intestines is off the list of things to do.  All that remains are the Petri cultures, checking for cases (again), or, reluctant sleep.  Sleep was boring.  After the previous cultures had failed to produce anything, he decides that he needs a more controlled environment, like the lab at St. Bart’s. 

_Could possibly attempt tomorrow._

So, he resolves to check the website, for the umpteenth time, for a case.  At this point he’ll take almost anything, even something like the infamous “The Case of the Disappearing Luminous Rabbit.”  He pulls up the website, and it comes as no surprise that no new cases have been posted.  He gives an annoyed sigh, now all that is left for him to do is sleep.  He hates sleeping; it wastes valuable time and takes time away from important things like experiments and solving cases.  He knows that it is vital for the body to restore itself and to keep the brain functioning at a normal capacity, but he really doesn’t care, he’s never had to rely on it to keep his mind flowing.  Now with nothing left to do but sleep he is on the verge of boredom.  No, scratch that, he _is_ bored.   Then, an idea bursts forth into his mind, shooting practice. 

_Will wake John up.  But my aim could use some practice, not as good as John.  That needs to be remedied.  But it will wake up John, what if he wants to talk again...about.  Oh god.  Can’t have that.  But so bored.  Does John have a silencer for gun?  Could always make one if need be.  Then again, won’t do much good in small space.  Immensely bored.  Could read, haven’t read Poe in a while._

Sherlock rises from his chair, the leather groaning as the weight of the lithe body on top of it is lessened.  His long, nimble fingers grab a compilation of Poe’s poetical works.  While he may scoff at the other (vapid and brainless) genres that the masses seem to enjoy with a wild fervour, he respects, and even admires the masters of horror like Poe, Shelley, and Stoker.   This evening he peruses quite a few poems until he reaches _The Conqueror Worm_ , one of his favourites.

_Lo! ‘tis a gala night!_

_Within lonesome latter years_

_An angel throng, bewinged, bedight._

_In veils, and drowned in tears,_

_Sit in a theatre, to see_

_A play of hopes and fears,_

_While the orchestra breathes fitfully_

_The music of spheres._

_Mimes, in the form of God on high,_

_Mutter and mumble low,_

_And hither and thither fly –_

_Mere puppets they, who come and go_

_At bidding of vast formless things_

_That shift the scenery to and fro,_

_Flapping from out their Condor wings_

_Invisible Wo!_

_That motley drama – oh, be sure_

_It shall not be forgot!_

_With its Phantom chased for evermore,_

_By a crowd that seize it not,_

_Through a circle that ever returnteth in_

_To the self-same spot,_

_And much of Madness, and more of Sin,_

_And Horror the soul of the plot._

_But see, amid the mimic rout_

_A crawling shape intrude!_

_A blood-red thing that writhes from out_

_The scenic solitude!_

_It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs_

_The mimes become its food,_

_And the angels sob at vermin fangs_

_In human gore imbued._

_Out—out are the lights—out all!_

_And, over each quivering form,_

_The curtain, a funeral pall,_

_Comes down with the rush of a storm,_

_And the angels, all pallid and wan,_

_Uprising, unveiling, affirm_

_That the play is the tragedy,_

_"Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm._

 

As Sherlock reads the final stanza of the poem a huge crash resounds from upstairs.

_John’s room.  By the sound of it a body landing on the floor.  John._

He flies out of his chair, feet barely touching the floor as he rushes to the aid of his friend.  He wrenches open John’s door and discovers him laying there on the wood floor, covered in sweat, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps, and his normally calm blue eyes are blown wide with fear. 

“John?  What’s wrong?”  says Sherlock frantically, searching the room for a possible intruder, something or someone that would have caused John to react in such a manner.

“Nightmare,” he replies breathlessly.

“Oh,” he relaxes, “Afghanistan?”  _A mental threat, not physical.  Could easily deal with a corporeal presence, much harder to get rid of a figment of the mind.  Especially one from the mind of a wounded soldier._

John nods, his breathing is slowing closer towards normal as he pushes himself up to stand.  He wipes the sweat from his face and looks at Sherlock,

“Why’d you come up here?”

“I heard what only could have been a body hitting the floor and came up here to make sure that it was either dealt with or if you weren’t in any sort of trouble.”

“You seriously thought that someone was trying to hurt me?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

John rolled his eyes, “Why?”

“Because John, I couldn’t...” his eyes grow wide and his pupils shrink as the realisation of what he almost said comes crashing down.  He casts his eyes downward, as if his feet were the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Couldn’t what?”

“Nothing, never mind,” he turns to walk out the door, trying to escape this line of conversation for the second time today.    

“Sherlock, please just tell me.  What could be so bad that even you couldn’t say it?  You say whatever you want.”

“I...can’t John.”

“I can tell it’s eating you up inside, even if you try to look like nothing is bothering you, I can still tell.”

“John, please believe me.  I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because.”

“That’s your reason?  ‘Because!’”  John’s voice was rising now; he was becoming angrier by the second.  Why did Sherlock have to behave like such a child sometimes?  How could he not trust him, his best friend, to understand?  “Sherlock, this is ridiculous! Why do you insist on being miserable?”

“I...I’d...”

_Rather be miserable than alone._

“You’d what?”

“I...please John, you must understand.  I. Can’t.”

“Fine,” he sniffs, “have it your way then, go off and be miserable for a while, see if I care.” 

_I do care, why can’t you understand that?  Just tell me what’s bothering you, and we’ll sort it out._

Sherlock relaxes and begins to make his way back down the stairs.  John closes his door, with enough force to cause Sherlock to wince. 

_Wonderful. Made John upset again, two days in a row.  Perfect.  Idiot.  Stupid.  Imbecile.  Should have just told him.  Said I could.  Most likely didn’t mean that though.  But I could have.  Could have told him, ‘I couldn’t survive without my blogger, my doctor, my John.  I couldn’t bear to see you hurt or in danger.  That’s what I was so afraid of, when I heard your body hit the floor, that someone had hurt you, or worse.  You’re my only friend and I couldn’t...can’t...won’t imagine the world without you.’_

Sherlock walks slowly, painfully so, back to the living room.  His shoulders are hunched over with regret.  He pulls his dressing gown around himself, a sad attempt at self-soothing and flops down on the sofa.  He turns over on his side, face toward the back cushions, his back exposed to the flat, to whatever may come his way.  Frankly, he doesn’t give a damn.  He pulls his knees close to his chest, contorting himself into a foetal position.  His hands run through the mess of glossy black curls and they eventually come to cover his face. 

_Coward._

His eyes close in shame and regret. 

Sherlock hears a soft cough from behind him, John, clearing his throat.  Sherlock’s hands fall from his face.  He sits up in shock and in the scramble hits his head on something hard and wooden.  His hand goes immediately to the back of his head and rubs where it impacted.  His eyes flit and dart across the room, taking a rapid inventory of his surroundings.

_Different room.  John’s.  Hit my head, on what?  Of course, headboard.  Wait.  On John’s bed? Oh god._

Sherlock’s fingers grasp at the sheets around him as he sits up. 

John clears his throat again; Sherlock’s head whips around to look at the man standing next to him.  John smiles and walks closer to the man on his bed; leans in close, and brushes Sherlock’s face with a single finger, tracing a line down his jaw, he continues down Sherlock’s neck, causing the taller man to shudder when John’s finger alights on his collarbone and traces around the prominent feature.  John’s hands slip down and beneath Sherlock’s dressing gown and slowly strip it off his frame.  His hands explore Sherlock’s beautiful, lean chest beneath his light blue cotton tee-shirt.  John pinches a nipple and Sherlock’s head falls back with pleasure, a moan escapes his lips, his long fingers rush up to John’s head and he runs them through his sandy blond hair. John smiles and leans in closer, he noses Sherlock’s jaw line, and he kisses his way tenderly down Sherlock’s long alabaster neck.  His tongue flicks the same line that his fingers had drawn just seconds before, but this sensation was different, much more powerful.  Sherlock moans again and presses closer to John.  His body is warm and his skin smells so wonderful, a glorious combination of musk, spices, his soap, and a scent that Sherlock could only identify as something belonging solely to John.   

“John,” Sherlock breathes; he pulls him down onto the bed on top of him and wraps his long legs around his waist.  He grabs John’s face with both hands and presses his lips to his.  John deepens the kiss, his tongue begs for entry into Sherlock’s mouth, which he gladly grants and arches into him further.  Sherlock notices a bulge pressing against his thigh.  He smirks, pleased that John is as turned on as he is. 

John becomes more anxious, more dominant.  He practically rips Sherlock’s shirt from his chest and tosses the obtrusive article across the room.  His hands then fly across the lithe body below him, desperately trying to touch all of it at once.

“Anxious, John?”  laughs Sherlock darkly.

“Oh yeah.  Take off your trousers.  _Now_.”

Sherlock happily obliges, he unwraps his legs and scrambles to get his trousers off.  Despite the awkward angle he manages and tosses them in the direction of his shirt.  

“Good, now hold still, and don’t move.  I mean it Sherlock.”

Sherlock just nods.  John passionately kisses his way down Sherlock’s porcelain chest and he stops at his groin, his breath ghosting over the bulge in Sherlock’s pants.  He wraps his hands around Sherlock’s thighs, grabs the waistband of his pants with his teeth and slowly pulls them down and over Sherlock’s erection. 

“The things I’m going to do to you Sherlock.”

“John –” within a few minutes, he had reduced Sherlock to a begging mess, and he really hadn’t even touched him.  

_Reduced me to this with just kisses.  If he continues..._

He shudders with both pleasure and fear of the unknown.   

John spreads Sherlock’s legs further apart and whispers commandingly into his ear,

“Don’t. Move.”

He dismounts and climbs off the bed, which creaks as the weight is lessened.  He walks over to where he had tossed Sherlock’s shirt and picks it up.  Realisation flickers across Sherlock’s face.

“Oh god. John,” he looks over at him and starts to sit up.

“What did I say?” he asks in a low, rough voice, rounding on him, “Don’t move Sherlock.  Now, lay back down.”

He does just that.  John pads back over to the bed, twisting the cotton tee shirt into a rope.  He grabs and presses Sherlock’s hands together.  He pulls, forcing him to fully extend his arms above his head.  Sherlock’s hands knock against decorative post of the headboard.  John grabs the shirt and gives it another twist, for good measure, and ties Sherlock’s wrists to the bed post, pulling the knot tight  Sherlock gasps, the pain releasing endorphins, quickly turning it into pleasure.   John climbs back onto the bed and bends over Sherlock in an almost predatory position. 

“Now that I have you how I want, I’m almost not sure what I want to do first.  Almost.”

John spreads Sherlock’s legs again and places his mouth at the base of Sherlock’s now rock hard erection.  He licks from the base of the shaft all the way to the tip, slowly, methodically, torturing Sherlock.   He focuses on the head, working his tongue in delicious circles around the tip.  Sherlock’s hips buck as John slowly swallows the remainder of Sherlock’s member and begins to suck.

“Oh god, John,” whispers Sherlock, pulling at his bonds and squirming further, “faster.”

John releases his mouth from the shaft and looks directly into Sherlock’s eyes.  In John’s eyes, Sherlock saw something dark dominating where he had only seen kindness and patience before.  John speaks in a deep, forceful tone. 

“You know, for someone so brilliant, you don’t get it do you?  When I said ‘don’t move’ I meant it, also from now on you will be silent,” he presses a finger to Sherlock’s flushed lips, “you will not speak, or there will be consequences.  Understood?”

“Ye –” starts Sherlock, but when he sees John’s warning glare, he nods.

“Good.”

John climbs over Sherlock and unties his hands from the bed post, grabs him around the waist and flips him over and onto his stomach. 

“On your knees.”

Sherlock obeys.

“Hands on the bed post.”

Sherlock obeys again.  John wraps the shirt back around Sherlock’s wrists, around the bed post, and ties it into a knot once more.  The bed creaks as John leans backwards to grab something on the chest of drawers at the foot of his bed.  Sherlock hears the tell-tale click of a bottle, he turns, his neck to look at John.  He is spreading the lube over his fingers, coating them liberally. 

_Oh god, yes._

John slaps his hands to Sherlock’s ass, spreads his cheeks, and brushes a knuckle over the puckered entrance.  Sherlock hisses, his legs practically give out from under him, but he remains kneeling.  John slowly presses a finger in and twists, Sherlock bites down on his lip, desperately trying to remain quiet.  As he works him open with one finger, he adds another.  Sherlock gasps as the second is added.  John’s fingers find their way deeper until they brush and gently stroke Sherlock’s prostate.  He almost loses it then and there, he gasps, pushing back onto John’s fingers.  John bends over him, and whispers darkly into the back of his neck,

“I’m going to fuck you so hard Sherlock, you won’t be able to move for days.”

He shivers, “Please do it John, please.”

Sherlock hears the metal teeth of a zipper being undone, and then the shrill shriek of a siren -.  

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open; he’s back on the couch in their living room. 

He mentally curses the passing vehicles for rousing him from such a vivid, wondrous dream.  However, it was not without consequence, while the dream was nothing but a fabrication of his mind; it had resulted in a very real erection.

_Ah._

He glances around the flat, noting that it is late into the night, probably closer to morning.  The refrigerator hums quietly in the background, but no other signs of life are present.  So, he resolves to solve this ridiculous problem presently.  He pulls his trousers and pants over his throbbing erection and with one hand he begins to slowly pump, his eyes close and his mouth falls open, forming a mental picture of the dream he had just left.  Sherlock is so focused on his task that he fails to notice the figure lingering in the doorway. 

John had come down the stairs for a drink of water, after a nightmare he often found that he was left with a dry mouth.  So, he had waited for a while before descending the stairs to get a drink in order to avoid yet another awkward confrontation with Sherlock.  That had proved to be a terrible decision on his part.  He had just been returning from the kitchen with a glass of water in hand and started to ascend the stairs when Sherlock awoke from his dream.  John stopped dead, foot poised on the first step.  He turned around, expecting Sherlock to say something.  But instead he found him lying there with a massive hard on.  When Sherlock removed his pants and began to masturbate, John’s mouth fell open and the glass of water nearly fell from his hand.  He just stood there, dumbstruck.  He shouldn’t even be watching this, Sherlock’s private moment, let alone _enjoying_ it.  He felt a twitch in his own groin.

_No, no.  You’re straight John.  You really should go back upstairs, stop watching, it’s weird.  But strangely hot.  What?!_

Sherlock began pumping faster, a breathy “oh god” fell from his lips, followed by “John.”  John found himself fully, though unwillingly, erect.  Should he wait for Sherlock to finish and then head upstairs, or just go now while he was so distracted.  As quietly as he can he scuttles up the stairs and closes his door behind him.  He lies down on his bed and removes his pants.  Normally his fantasies involve a pretty blonde girl, but not tonight.  He imagines instead the slender, graceful fingers of Sherlock running up and down his body, teasing him, his full and impossibly arched lips on his mouth and finally ending up on his cock.  The idea of Sherlock sucking him off sends him over the precipice.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this case I draw from "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs" which can be found in "The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes"
> 
> Also, I apologize in advance if the names get confusing from here on out. Having two John's and three Garridebs can get pretty tedious to keep track of, but I did my best to make it clear who is who.

“A case!”  shouts Sherlock.  John comes rushing down the stairs and pokes his head around the corner of the door frame.

“What?”

“A case John! A case!”

“Well that’s good.”  _Oh god this is awkward._ “So, what have we got?”

“I just received this email from a Nathan Garrideb.  He’s looking for a man with the same surname, but no relation, or some possible relation, but possibly distant, as it would result in quite a hefty inheritance for him.”

“Really, Sherlock?  An inheritance case, since when did you want to take on something so, so, well boring?”

“John, this is our first case in weeks, and there is something different about this one, why would someone need to find others with a similar surname, but no obvious relation, just to gain an inheritance?”

“Alright fine, when is he coming?”

“In a few hours.”

“Ah, good.  I’ll put the kettle on.”

Sherlock nods in acknowledgement and goes back to typing, mind obviously working furiously.  John grabs the kettle from the stove, goes over to the sink, and fills the kettle with water.  He places it back on its original position on the burner.  He ignites the gas, grabs the tea bags from the cupboard, and leans against the kitchen table, waiting for the kettle to boil.  His mind begins to wander back to the events of last night. He could only hope that Sherlock, through all of his amazing powers of observation, had somehow not noticed him standing in the doorway yesterday watching him toss off.  But, by far the most embarrassing part was just how much it had turned him on.  He had resolved to never tell Sherlock.  He just couldn’t.  Something had sparked within him yesterday, and it terrified him. 

“John…”

No response.

“John!”

“Huh, what?”

“The kettle?”  Black smoke rises from the stove top, the kettle squealing like an injured rabbit, begging to be released from the flames. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”  John runs around the kitchen, grabbing towels as he goes, “Sherlock!”

“What?”

“A little help!?” 

Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh and rises from his chair.  He walks calmly to the stove, turns the knob to the “off” position.  He grabs a towel from John’s hands, and uses it to grab the handle of the kettle, lifts it from the burner and tosses the charred husk into the sink.  He turns on the water which hisses as it washes over the hot surface of the kettle.  He leaves the water on and turns to face John,

“Are you alright?”

“Ye-yeah.”

“What were you doing?”

“I…guess I just got lost in thought.”

“I see.”

“I guess we can’t offer our client a hot cuppa huh?”

Sherlock chuckles, “we could always offer him coffee.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the doorbell.

“Ah, good. Our client is here.”  He seats himself back in his leather chair, one leg folded over the other, fingers laced together.  John sits at the table in the living room and grabs his notebook and pen.  He opens the book up to a new page and writes down the date. 

“Good afternoon Mr. Garrideb,” says Sherlock as the man enters the room. 

“Hello.”

Sherlock stares intently at the man in front of him, his mind furiously gathering any information he deems necessary.  _American? Ah, the one Nathan described in email.  The other Garrideb, John Garrideb of Kansas.  Also searching for others with same surname.  Most interesting._

“Do sit down,” he suggests, gesturing to the chair in front of him. 

He sits down across from Sherlock, his rather portly frame filling the chair.  Sherlock leans in; uncrossing his legs to rest his elbows on his knees, fingers still laced and studies the figure in front of him. 

A few awkward seconds tick by when John finally interjects,

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Didn’t you want to talk to him? So far all you’ve done is stare at him,” he turns to the guest, “sorry, he does this.”

“What, all the time?”

“Well no, but when we do have clients or something piques his interest then yes.”

“Must be a handful.”

John smiles, “yeah, he can be.”

“You’ve been in London quite a while John.”

“Uh, Sherlock, I’ve lived here most of my life.”

“Not you, John, him.  John Garrideb.”

“What?” exclaims Garrideb, “How could you tell?”

“Your suit.”

“My suit?”

“Yes.  Why are most of you so dull?”  John clears his throat in a “Sherlock, behave” sort of way, “Your suit is clearly English.  Your jacket is cut in the English style, favouring less of a shoulder pad, higher arm holes, and the cut of your trousers is narrow in relation to that of an American or Italian style suit.  Then there is the fabric and colour, wool, if I’m correct, and I am. We tend to favour the heavier fabrics and more subtle dyes.  So, from there I can deduce that you have spent a rather significant amount time in England, enough time to have a suit tailored, which you clearly opted to do instead of bringing your outfits from your home in Kansas.  A simple observation.”

Garrideb blinks, his rotund, baby-like face growing pink.  His sharp eyes grow hard.

“Mr. Holmes, I am a very busy man.  I did not come here to be examined like a piece of meat at a store, nor did I come here for you to waste my time!  And I can tell you for a fact, that I have only just come to London and besides what the hell does my time in London have to do with my case?!”

“Calm down, you did ask how I knew, so I told you.  Now, since you seem so intent on pursuing this case, let’s get to work, shall we?  Why is the other Garrideb not with you?”

“He only sent me an email about how he was looking for people with our last name.  However, I was not happy to hear that he had involved you Mr. Holmes.”

“I see.”

“What do you do, exactly?” asked John.

Garrideb puffs out his chest with pride and tells them of his life as a “very important lawyer” and how he rubs elbows with elite socialites like Alexander Hamilton Garrideb, millionaire land tycoon.  When he died he included him in his will, promising him his $15,000,000 estate if he could find two others with the name of Garrideb. The property would then be divided among the three.  From there, his search took him to England, because it seemed that he was the only Garrideb in the US.  As of yet, he had only found Nathan.

“Now, where are you originally from in Kansas?”

“Topeka.”

“Really, do you know a Dr. Lysander Starr?  He was an old acquaintance of mine.”

“Yes!  What a small world!  He was such a nice man, very well respected.”

“I see.  I’ll take the case, now have a good day, we’ll be in touch.”

“W-what?”

“I said, have a good day Mr. Garrideb, I need to think.”

“Okay...goodbye Mr. Holmes, here’s my card,” he hands Sherlock an off-white business card with a simple typeface proclaiming

 

**John Garrideb, Esq.**

**Attorney at Law.**

**Kansas City, Kansas, USA.**

**816-555-1568**

 

He exits the flat and Sherlock crosses his legs again. A smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s so funny?”

“Our client, John.”

“What about him?”

“He’s not who he says he is.  He said that he had only recently come to London, which cannot possibly be true, the elbows and trouser cuffs of his pants were frayed suggesting about a year’s worth of wear.  So, obviously he has spent enough time here to not only have a suit tailored, but also enough time for it to show some considerable wear.  Then there was his accent.  What did you notice about it John?”

“It was definitely American, but there was something different about it, it wasn’t as harsh.”

“Good John, his accent has been significantly lessened by his time overseas, another indication of the amount of time he has been in England.  Then there was my mention of Dr. Starr, whom I have never met, in fact he was a complete fabrication of my own mind.”

“What?”

“Meaning that I simply fed him lies and he regurgitated them, turning them into something he could use to further his character.”

“That’s brilliant Sherlock.”

“Oh please John; it was just simple deductive work.”  Nevertheless, Sherlock seems to glow.  Whenever John called him brilliant, amazing, or incredible he couldn’t help but smile a bit. 

“So what now?”

“We go talk to Nathan Garrideb.”

They exit the flat together.  Rain pelts their faces as they emerge.  The weather has not relinquished its icy grip; in fact it seems to have tightened it.  November rain, it holds the promise of winter, cold, miserable and relentless.  Sherlock pulls his collar up to meet his cheekbones, making his already sharp features to look even more severe and intriguing. 

_Damn that face of his._

John never liked the cold, let alone wet cold.  It made for a miserable combination, resulting in an irritable John.  He pulls his coat tighter around his frame, trying to shut out the weather.  Sherlock hails a cab and climbs in, followed by John.  The warmth of the cab envelopes them in a glorious embrace, a welcome sensation. 

“136 Little Ryder Street,” orders Sherlock.  He pulls out his phone and begins frantically typing.  His slender fingers flying over the keypad.  Suddenly John is hyperaware of just how close they are in they are.  Their thighs almost touching, their shoulders occasionally brushing as Sherlock types or John adjusts in his seat.  That same feeling that he felt when he discovered Sherlock on the sofa returns with a vengeance.  Sending electric pulses up his spine, he clenches his hand into a fist and places his head into the other.  He turns to the window and forces himself to look out and at the scenery whizzing past their cab, once again, hoping that Sherlock is too involved with whatever he’s doing on his phone to notice how tense John has become.   

_This is so embarrassing, even just thinking about his tossing off does this to me._

“Uh, Sherlock, I...”

“We’re here John,” he states, climbing out of the warm cab and back into the elements.  In a way he’s glad that he can avoid _that_ particular conversation with him for now, but he needs to say _something_. 

Little Ryder Street appears to be quiet and orderly, the red brick row-houses are clean, their yards tidy and well maintained.  Not a soul is on the street, all have taken shelter from the abysmal weather.  They walk up to number 136 and John knocks quietly on the door.  An older man opens it a crack. 

“Can I help you two?”

“Mr. Garrideb?   Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who?”

“You contacted me about a Mr. John Garrideb.”

“Oh yes, sorry, memory’s a bit foggy.”

“Do you mind if we come in? It’s a bit cold out here,” pleads John.

“Oh, sure, come right in Mr. Holmes and Mr uh...”

“Dr. Watson, but you can just call me John.”

“Alright then, John.”

Once inside they get a better look at the home’s occupant.  Appearing to be about 60 odd years old he is a tall man, but lanky isn’t quite the correct word to describe him, he’s closer to the “skin and bones” category, and in fact his face looks positively skeletal in the dim yellow lights of his flat.  However, his voice is warm and inviting, promising good company.

His flat however, is something to behold.  It resembles a museum.  Where ever there was a flat surface or wall space has been taken over by shelves, display cases, and artefacts of almost every nature and from almost every continent.  Right away, John can tell that Sherlock is vastly intrigued by Garrideb’s astonishing collection.  Sherlock gravitates towards the cabinet containing a large amount of skulls, each one a step in the human evolutionary chain, their labels ranging from “Neanderthal” to “Cro-Magnon.”  While John instead finds himself more interested in the monstrous Japanese vase occupying an entire corner of the main room, he reaches out to touch the smooth porcelain face of the vase, but is quickly interrupted by a small disapproving cough,

“If you could please not touch that vase John, it’s quite old, and very fragile.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Could we please talk about why you contacted me earlier this morning,” interjects Sherlock, “when did John Garrideb contact you?”

“Now, when Jon Garrideb contacted you did he mention the will and the vast amount of money that each of the three Garrideb’s could stand to inherit?”

“He did.”

“But I’m presuming that you showed no interest in buying an American property.”

“Correct, couldn’t leave the collection, now could I?”

“So, what did he offer you in return?”

“He offered to buy me out for about 5 million quid, not an amount to sneeze at m’boy, so naturally I said yes.  Just think of how I could close the gaps in my collection with that money, why I’d be the envy of the nation!  We just have to find one more Garrideb and it will all be settled.”

“Interesting, and did the other Garrideb tell you of our meeting this morning?”

“Yep, sounded really angry about it too.”

“Has he ever asked to borrow money from you?”

“No, why would he, I’m not a rich man Mr. Holmes, most of my savings go towards my collection.”

“So, there is nothing of great value here?”

“Not in particular, no.”

“I see, well, good afternoon Mr. Garrideb.”

“What?” asks John, “you’ve hardly asked him anything!”

“I have all of the information I require John.”

“Then why do you look so confused?”

“Confused? I am never confused John.”

“Yeah, sure.”

They exit the building and promptly run headlong into the portly figure of John Garrideb. 

“Hey!  Watch where you’re going idiot! Oh, it’s you.”

“Garrideb, how fortuitous to find you here, news for the other Garrideb?”

“None of your damn business Holmes!” he shouts and slams the door behind him.  From inside they hear shouts of joy through the thin door.

“I found him! I found him!”

Sherlock turns around and opens the door,

“Found whom?”

“Why John has found the third Garrideb Sherlock.  Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Who is he?”

John Garrideb hands Sherlock the advertisement, it reads:

 

**HOWARD GARRIDEB**

**Structural Engineer**

**Specializing in high-rises and commercial buildings**

**71 Eaton Square, London**

 

“This is wonderful news Mr. Garrideb!” exclaims Nathan, “we can finally put an end to all of this mess!”

“Yes we can, and you will have your 5 million, I will have my property, and well, the other Garrideb will have to decide what to do with his portion.”

Sherlock pulls John aside and says quietly,

“John, I want you to go with those two when they go to see Howard Garrideb.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s not a real person John, the other John made him up, didn’t you see the advertisement?”

“Of course I did Sherlock, but what does that –”

“As ever, you see but you do not observe John, it denoted him as specializing in ‘high-rises’, an obvious Americanism, so clearly it was placed by none other than John Garrideb.  Now, I need you to go with them and report back to me your findings.”

“What are you going to do?”

Sherlock’s only response is a devious smile.  


	5. Chapter 5

_Running.  Why do these cases always involve running?_

“Come John!”  Sherlock shouts, who is trailing a few feet behind him.

“I’m coming!” he wheezed.

●●● 3 Hours Earlier ●●●

 

It was a very rare thing that stumped Sherlock Holmes.  The enigma that was John Garrideb, the highly improbable Howard Garrideb, and the recluse Nathan Garrideb had become an amalgamation of unanswered questions and confusion. 

 Through much convincing, and some pleading, John had convinced Nathan to come with him to go meet this supposed Howard Garrideb.  The three men hailed a cab and proceeded to the address on the advertisement.  While John knew London well, he was not as familiar with the district of Belgravia, having only visited it once before, and he found it odd that someone would post their place of residence versus an office in a want ad.  It appeared that Sherlock was right, once again, and that this Howard Garrideb was just a fabrication created by John Garrideb, if that was his true identity. 

When they reached 71 Eaton Place they all climbed out of the car and gathered on the front doorstep.  John Garrideb rang the doorbell and waited for a response.  But none came.  Nathan suggested ringing it again, as they could be busy or just didn’t hear the bell.  So, the first Garrideb tried it again.  But it was to no avail.  John then suggested that they could try again tomorrow, and volunteered 221B as a gathering place to go and wait for Sherlock to return from whatever it was he was doing.  The two other men agreed and caught another taxi.  While on their way back to the flat, John furiously texted Sherlock with the details about what had transpired that evening, including his agreement that John Garrideb was not who he claimed to be. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock caught a cab of his own and directed the driver to Scotland Yard.  He called Lestrade, informing him of his imminent arrival.  Lestrade objected at first, as it was late and the missus wanted him home, but when Sherlock informed him of the ongoing investigation and his suspicions about John Garrideb.  After that, Lestrade sighed and reluctantly agreed to help.  A few minutes later Sherlock reached his destination, threw a 20 at the driver, and flew into the building.  He knocked on the door to Lestrade’s office and went in.  He asked if Lestrade had gathered the files he requested, he said he had and handed the rather large folder over to Sherlock.   He opened the contents and spilled them out onto Lestrade’s previously, almost militaristically, neat desk. 

“Oi! I just cleaned that!” Lestrade objected

Sherlock’s only response was a grunt of acknowledgement, he’s too far gone.  The internal cogs and mechanisms whirred madly, processing, adding, and deleting all necessary information.  He discovered a picture buried deep within the pile of documents.  Its subject is unmistakeably that of a younger John Garrideb.  Sherlock held up the photo between two fingers, showing it to Lestrade. 

“This man, tell me about him.”

“That’s James Winter, he was also known as Morecroft and “Killer” Evans.  He was convicted a few years back for the murder of Rodger Prescott, but he wiggled out of a life sentence due to mitigating circumstances.”

“Hmm...tell me about Prescott.”

“He was a counterfeiter from Chicago, damn good one too, he lived at 136 Little Ryder Street, and his cellar is where he would make his forgeries.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, lifting at one corner into a pleased grin. 

“Thank you Lestrade, you’ve been very helpful.” Sherlock looked up from the desk, placed his hands in his pockets and sauntered out of the office.

“What, you’re done?” the door closed, “I’ll just clean this up then.”

Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

_John._

After reading the text, he couldn’t help but smile.  Everything was falling perfectly into place.  He grabbed the closest cab and headed back to Baker Street. 

When he entered the flat, the two Garridebs were seated in each of the armchairs and John was pouring coffee for their guests.  He looked up from the two men and put the carafe of coffee down on the end table. 

“Back already?”

“Yes, I found what I needed.”

“And?”

“Phone Lestrade, tell him to be ready in 10 minutes.”

“Sure, I’ll be right back.”

John walked over and into the kitchen, pulled out his mobile and called Lestrade.  Once he hung up he returned to the living room.  He held up a carafe, offering Sherlock some of the coffee, which he declines with a wave of a dextrous hand.  Sherlock glances over at the portly man occupying his chair and smirks. 

“What?” 

“You’ve kept up this charade long enough, James.”

“What?” he asked again, his pupils contracted and his hands gripped the arms of the chair.

“Ah.  Struck a nerve did I, James Winter?”

“Shit.”  He rose slowly from the chair, adjusted his suit coat and turned to look at John who was still standing next to him.  With one massive fist he punched John square in the jaw.  John fell to the floor with a shout, grasping the left side of his face. 

“John!”  Sherlock cried, rushing over to him.  He knelt down next to his flatmate, clasping John’s hand with his own, removing John’s hand from his face to get a better look at the injury.  He touched John’s jaw softly, his fingers running over the reddened area with feather light caresses, cataloguing the damage done to his friend. 

“Sherlock,” John mumbles against the hands on his face, “I’m fine, really.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, I am a doctor, idiot.”

“Good, then let’s move, he fled right after punching you.”

“Fantastic.”

“Let’s go!”  Sherlock flew down the stairs, leaving John no time to grab neither his jacket nor his gun before pursuing Sherlock.  John rushed out of the flat and nearly crashed into Sherlock.  He stood with hands on his temples, accessing his mental map of London, calculating the most likely route that James would take.  He looked behind to make sure that John was with him and took off running with John in tow.

Due to James’ girth he was much slower than Sherlock or John, but he had the advantage of time, it had been a whole five minutes before the two gave chase, allowing him time to slip into the night.  However, a year in London had not allowed him enough time to create the mental map that Sherlock possessed, and he soon found himself lost.  He had reached a dead end, the back of an alley.  A single light illuminated the dingy brick walls, unfortunately it was dying.  The yellow light lent the area a sombre feeling,  mould clung to the walls, and garbage had collected in the corners providing homes for vermin and pests, some scuttled out from their trash ridden refuge.  Hurried footsteps echo off the walls.

 _Shit, they found me_ . 

James’ hands fumble inside of his suit jacket until they stumble upon their desired object.  He pulls the gun out from his coat, releases the safety and cocks it straight ahead of him.  A figure runs directly at him and he fires twice.  The figure falls, landing in the dim light, John clasps his knee and cries out in agony, blood oozing between his fingers. 

“John!” cries Sherlock, his eyes widen and he rushes over to where John lies, coat swirling behind him.  He crouches over John’s crumpled and bleeding form.

“Sh-Sherlock...I” his eyes flutter closed as he is dragged into the abyss. 

“John? John!”  He presses two fingers to the jugular vein, and relaxes slightly as he feels a pulse, it’s faint and slow, but a pulse nonetheless.  He takes his fingers from John’s neck and eases himself back into a standing position.  He looks at John’s assailant, eyes feral and enraged, his chest heaving with anger.  He walks and towards Winter, his gait becoming that of a predator stalking prey.  Sherlock slams into James, taking his coat collar in his hands he shoves him up against the wall.  He stares directly into James’ terrified eyes.

“You are _very_ lucky that you are such a poor shot and that John is still alive,”  Sherlock’s deep baritone has become something dark, foreboding, terrifying, “For if John were not alive, I can assure you that neither would you be.”

“You, you can’t be – l” he searches Sherlock’s steely eyes, looking for a trace of hope, but finds none.  Sherlock slams James’ head against the brick wall and the larger man collapses to the ground, leaving a small trail of blood in his wake.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John sort of became my punching bag for this fic. Whoops...


	6. Chapter 6

John’s eyes fly open.  The room is unfamiliar, a subtle shade of blue colours the walls, both the floors and ceiling are an inoffensive off-white, purposefully chosen to seem less sterile than a pure white, but still appear clean.  Sunlight streams through the half-open horizontal blinds, the rain that had plagued London these past few days had finally ceased. 

_A hospital, I’m in a hospital? Why?_

_Right, shot in the leg._  

His eyes rest on the table next to his bedside, a few vases of flowers decorate the surface, some of the gifts sport cards wishing John to “Get Well Soon!” John smiles at the gesture. 

“John.” 

He whirls around on the bed, and discovers Sherlock sitting in the chair beside it.  Legs crossed, head cocked to one side, mouth open, and asleep. 

“Sherlock?”

The taller man’s eyes open, he turns to look at John, rises stiffly from the chair, shuffles over to John’s bedside, and sits down beside him. 

“How are you feeling John?”

“Like I got shot, but that’s nothing new.”

“John, now is not the time for levity.”

“Well, why the hell not?”

“Because I...” worry and guilt colour his face, “Because infection is the leading cause of death in hospitals and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Get an infection or die?” asks John, still joking. 

Sherlock’s eyes widen in fear and he clasps John’s face between his ivory hands.

“Don’t even talk like that John, if you died, I...”

“You what? And could you let go of my face?”

Sherlock releases John’s face and turns away mumbling, “I don’t know what I would do.”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

“I don’t know what I would do!” he shouts, his eyes brimming with the promise of tears, “When you were shot, all I could think of doing was killing the man responsible for your death.”

“But I didn’t die, and he shot me in the leg idiot. It’s highly unlikely that I would have died from that, not unless he struck an artery, which he didn’t.”

“I didn’t, don’t care,” he reaches for him again and places a hand on John’s arm, “I – ”

“You what?! Just tell me damn it! You’ve been trying to tell me something for days and have so far been pretty good about dodging that bullet, no pun intended, but it’s time to stop avoiding it Sherlock, just tell me.”

“Fine.  Do you really want to hear it?”

John rolls his eyes, “For the love of – yes! Yes I do!”

He exhales and hangs his head, “I couldn’t... can’t survive without my blogger, my doctor.  I can’t bear to see you hurt or in danger.  That was why I was so panicked when you had that nightmare, I thought someone had tried to hurt you, or when that arsehole James shot you.  You’re my only friend John, and I can’t...won’t imagine the world without you.”

_Oh god.  Finally told him.  Going to end badly._

John drops his eyes and is silent for a few seconds, “A friend, is that all I am to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Er, uh, well...I went downstairs a few nights back to grab a glass of water and umm...I sort of found you on the couch,” Sherlock’s eyes bulge as he realises where the direction of this particular conversation is heading, “umm...tossing off.”

“Oh.”

“And in the middle of it, you kind of said my name.”

“Ah.”

“Is that all you can say? Since when did you become so monosyllabically inclined?”

Sherlock just stares blankly at John.

“You honestly have no idea of what to say, do you?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Well then maybe I can help you, when I discovered you in that, uh, compromising position,” he leaned in closer to Sherlock to whisper in his ear, “I liked it.”

Sherlock shivers, “Really? I thought...”

“That the feelings were one sided?  Far from it, in fact, when we were in the cab together on the way to see Nathan I could barely keep my composure.  I’m surprised that you didn’t notice to be honest, both when we were in the cab and when you were on the couch.”

“I was...otherwise occupied.”

“Obviously, so, umm...If I may ask, what exactly happened that caused such a, uh, reaction?  I mean you’ve really never shown any interest in sex, let alone a romantic relationship with anyone.  You called sex ‘just transport’.  It just seemed so unlike, well, you.”

Sherlock flushes a deep pink and knits his hands together, “Erm...I had a dream.”

“About?” he prompts.

“Us, together.”

“By together you mean?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “For god’s sake John, how specific do you want me to get?  Must you have every single detail?”

“Well, you usually never spare the details, so you’ve really piqued my curiosity now.”

“Fine.  I dreamt I awoke on your bed.  You then proceeded to dominate me.  You were just about to penetrate me, it was then I woke up on the sofa,” the way Sherlock describes the scene is nothing short of clinical, completely devoid of emotion, “Happy now?”

John flushes a deep hue of fuchsia, “Uh...sure.”

“You did ask.”

 “I did, but I guess I had expected...well...”

“Something different.  I gathered, but it was that or describe everything about the dream in rather unnecessary detail, which would have resulted in an embarrassing situation for the both of us.”

“Ah.  Right.”

A small inquisitive knock raps on the door to John’s room.  John backs off of Sherlock, rearranging himself into a more proper, less conspicuous position, while Sherlock gracefully rises from the bed and turns around to sit back in the chair.

“Come in,” calls John.

The door swings open, on the other side is the man whom one would call the very epitome of “doctor”.  His face is kind and open, the sort of face one would be willing to tell all of your problems, your aches, pains, and worries to.  He beams at John, his white teeth flashing in the sun pouring through the blinds.

“Ah, good to see you up Dr. Watson,” he walks over to the other doctor and shakes his hand with a hearty grip, “one of the bullets lodged in your menisci, that took a bit of digging to extract, the other grazed the very top of your tibia. So, you did sustain a bit of blood loss, but the wounds were nothing life-threatening.  All in all, you should be out of here within a few days.  However, you will need to use a cane for that leg of yours.  It’s going to take some time to heal properly.”

“Oh, umm...yeah.  Guess I’m going to start using that cane again.  Thank you doctor,” the man smiles down at John once more and exits the room.  John turns to Sherlock, “do we still have my cane?”

Sherlock reaches behind the chair and tosses the previously obsolete cane into John’s lap. 

“Ah.  Well, that should save me a few pounds.”

“After I saw the state of your leg, I figured you may need it again.”

John crawls out from under the blanket, slowly pulling the sheet over his injury.  He carefully examines his left leg, his fingers run over the angry crimson divot in his knee.  Black stitches criss-cross over the wound, pulling the skin back together.   His hands move further down his leg, he pulls at the bandages covering part of his shin, removing them.  There the wound is much less significant, while it will scar, it should be much less noticeable than the latter, a superficial injury at most. 

_I could have done a much neater job._  

He glances up at the man beside his bed.  Sherlock’s eyes are trained on the scarlet gash; the normally calm celadon orbs have clouded over to become thunderous and fuming.  

“Sherlock, I’m alright.  Really.”

He looks up, “I know.”

“Then stop looking like you’re about to march over to the prison and murder Winter.”

“I can’t.  Because he did _this_ to you, John,” he spits out the word, taints it with disdain and loathing. 

“Yes he did, but only because he was desperate and stupid, mostly stupid.  I’ve been shot before, and I’ve been through much worse, believe me, I was a solider Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s sighs.  A minute ticks by in silence before John speaks again. 

“So, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“What happened after I...well, blacked out?”

Sherlock sighs a second time, he presses his fingers to his temples and starts to rub small circles into the indentations. 

 “John I really don’t want to talk about this now, but James was promptly arrested after he shot you.   Nathan returned to his house on Little Ryder Street.”

“But I still don’t understand, why did James kill Prescott in the first place?”

“Isn’t it obvious John? He wanted the counterfeiting equipment that was hidden in Nathan’s cellar.  There was a trapdoor in plain sight.”

“What? Where?”

“Do you recall that large Japanese vase that Nathan had to shoo you away from?  Well, it was hidden under it, if you were observant you would have noticed one of the hinges of the door was visible.”

“Well how stupid of me for not noticing.”

“It’s perfectly alright John, not everyone can be me.”

“You’re such a self-centred arse, you know that?”

Sherlock smiles and faces John, “I have been told that before, so yes I do.”

John rolls his eyes and shifts again. He drapes his legs off the bed, scoots over to Sherlock, and rests his head against the taller man’s shoulder.  Sherlock looks at the man next to him, and he can’t believe his good fortune.  He had absolutely expected to have John reject him and that those feelings would never be reciprocated.  Instead, Sherlock finds himself in an entirely new situation, and while it is strange and intimidating, there is also the thrill of something new and exciting, the promise of discovery. 

Sherlock tilts John’s head up with a single finger and kisses him gently.  John quickly reciprocates the kiss, deepening it into something the very definition of passion. It holds the promise of things to come, it is fervent, fiery, and utterly and completely perfect.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the official end of the story, however, my beta suggested that I add a sort of smut filled epilogue but I'm not sure if I want to. For now, I'm happy with how the story wraps up...for now.


End file.
